Faceless-Fateless

No matter what country you find yourself in, someone always offers you a cutthroat deal on very dubious-looking sausages in buns.

Sometimes people die. Then they campaign for the rights of the undead.

It is a dark and stormy night. “Bugger this for a lark,” you grumble. “I don’t see why we have to meet at night, and even less why we should meet in a storm. It’d be much more sensible to just lunch at the Ritz.”

You’ve sung every verse of “All the Little Angels,” which at first seems silly, but then gains significance until the very question “How do they rise up?” makes you unexpectedly weepy. Soldiers’ songs are alike that way: sentimental with naughty bits in, and sung by voices you hear only in your memory.

You are a member of the Seamstress’s Guild. You don’t know how to sew, but you’re being considered for a leadership role if you know what I mean.

Someone you know has taken an aphorism or a metaphor to its illogical conclusion.

You drink to forget. You’re so successful at it, you no longer remember what it is you wanted to forget in the first place.

You have a matter-of-fact way of explaining complex systems of institutionalized social inequality using household objects; i.e., socks and boots.

You are a witch, and can turn anything into anything, particularly weaknesses into strengths, and selfishness into selflessness.

You can save the world because it is yours.

You ATEN’T DED.

You see little blue men. You haven’t been drinking. They are happy to change that for you

You are a recovering vampire who’s bandaged over your addiction to blood with another powerful, but less dangerous craving. You would literally kill for a cup of coffee.

You are an angel whose main goal in life is to never sell a single book.

You know the difference between stories that want you to believe what you are told, and the ones that want to help you learn. There is nothing so powerful as a story — and nothing so human.

You may live in a ridiculous world full of lies, but you hold fast to the important lies of fairness, mercy, and human dignity. Even if you never find a single molecule of fairness, the fantasy of it is what unites the falling angel to the rising ape. It’s what makes us human.

Basically, I imagine those same two stormtroopers who walked by the interrogation room when Kylo was destroying everything to go and patrol down on the maintenance level- things are kicking off, it’s quiet down there, they can just wait until this whole Resistance thing blows over. And then they’re walking past this panel and it’s punched out from the inside by Captain Phasma, covered in space garbage and clutching a dianoga’s dripping eyestalk in her fist.